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He reaches for my hand and lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss onto my knuckles without breaking eye contact.

Then, he turns to leave, strolling away down the road, glancing back to flash a winning smile at me over his shoulder.

I have to give it to him: he knows what he’s doing.

All of it was incredibly charming and sexy.

But I can’t help wishing I was going on a date with someone else.

*

The main living area of Leo’s flat is spacious and light, fairly minimalist with a few personal touches here and there – a bookshelf in one corner of the room, well-kept house plants dotted around on glass tables, some framed photographs of him and his dad, and friends – but the main draw is the balcony.

It’s huge, with a stunning view of the rooftops of Burgau sloping down to the beach.

‘Wow,’ I whisper, wandering over to the edge to look out.

‘You like it?’ he asks.

‘I’m not sure anyone could not like it,’ I remark, unable to tear my eyes away. ‘I thought my balcony was good, but I think yours might win. It’s about four times the size.’

‘I remember saying to Dad when I found this place that it suited me because more of the apartment felt like it was outside than inside,’ he recalls, leaning his elbows on the side of the balcony next to me.

‘I was worried I wouldn’t find anywhere I really loved here, because the village is so small.

But this came up for sale the week I decided to start looking for my own place. I put an offer in straight away.’

‘Fate.’

‘Something like that,’ he says, checking his phone either for the time or for a message from his dad who he’s already told me is running late. ‘What would you like to drink? Wine or beer or soft drink? I have a variety of all of those, so take your pick.’

‘Soft drink please. What are you having?’

‘A very exciting glass of flavoured water with ice.’

I break into a smile. ‘That sounds perfect.’

‘Coming right up.’

As he heads back inside, I wander in behind him, taking in his home and picturing him living here.

I’ve almost always been invited into the house of the person I’m interviewing; a lot of people feel more comfortable chatting to me whilst lounging on their sofa, surrounded by home comforts.

Others might do it to show off their impressive interior design or to prove to the readers that they’re not too flashy, that they’re relatable with their kids’ toys shoved into the corner of a room out of the way and their dogs jumping up for a cuddle on the sofa.

But I actually get the feeling that, although it’s helpful as a journalist to see his home, I haven’t been invited here as one.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he offers, nodding to the wide, grey sofa as he opens the large, silver fridge in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from inside the door.

I perch on the edge of his sofa, fiddling with the hem of my burnt-orange playsuit.

Picking an outfit for tonight was a difficult call; I had to find something that wasn’t too formal as I knew it wouldn’t be that kind of occasion, but it also couldn’t be too date night or too casual.

In the end, I had to video call Naomi to confirm that it was appropriate.

I would have asked Flora’s opinion, too, but she has enough on her plate with Kieran’s dad rocking up and preparing for the baby’s arrival.

Also, I knew she’d ask a lot of questions about why this was so important when I was just popping round for dinner with a client and I didn’t want to answer them.

‘The wedges are maybe too much?’ I suggested, as I held up the phone to show Naomi my reflection in the full-length mirror.

‘No, your legs look insane. Is it really hot over there or something? How come you’re so tanned?’ Naomi asked enviously.

‘There’s this amazing invention where they bottle tan and you can cover yourself in it.’ I’d laughed. ‘It’s fake, Naomi.’

‘You’ve done a bloody good job.’

‘So you don’t think the wedges are too much?’

‘Wear the wedges,’ Naomi insisted. ‘They’re not too high, so I think you can get away with them being fairly casual. Glam-casual, shall we say.’

‘I do have gladiator-strap sandals, which might be easier on the walk to his place.’

‘Like a long walk has ever stopped you before. Weren’t you born in heels?’

‘So the legend goes.’

‘I guess you have to ask yourself the following questions,’ she began, shooting a sly smile at the camera.

‘Do you want this guy to see you in a purely professional manner? Or do you want to leave the dinner knowing that he’s going to be fantasising about you and your long legs all night?

If it’s the former, then you need to pick a different outfit and a different pair of shoes. If it’s the latter, you’re good to go.’

I pretended to think about it.

Anyway, I’m glad I made the effort because Leo has too.

Well, as much as he can, I guess. He’s wearing a crisp, white, linen shirt and pale-salmon-pink shorts.

He’s done something different with his hair – although it still looks dishevelled, if stylishly – and when he invited me in earlier and I walked past him, I got a whiff of the cologne he’d sprayed on.

It smells musky and delicious.

‘So what’s on the menu?’ I ask as he comes to sit down next to me. ‘After hearing of your baking success, I’m looking forward to experiencing your culinary skills.’

‘Aren’t writers meant to be observant?’ he asks, placing our drinks down on the coffee table and leaning back into the cushion, his body twisted towards me. ‘You haven’t noticed the lack of cooking smells or the fact that the kitchen is spotless.’

I glance over at the bare kitchen.

‘My dad will be providing the food for tonight,’ he informs me in a hushed voice.

I lean forwards, lowering my voice to a hush to match his. ‘I’m a little bit relieved.’

He grins at me. ‘I would be if I were you.’

Giggling, I sit straight again and reach for my glass before something catches my eye on the wall behind him. A charcoal sketch of a sailboat in the same style as the one in Marina’s Bar and in his dad’s shop. He notices my expression and turns to follow my eyeline.

‘What?’ he asks, swivelling back to me in confusion.

‘That artwork,’ I say, pointing to it in excitement. ‘I keep seeing it. Is it a local artist?’

‘Oh, yeah, it is. Very local.’ He looks almost pained as he adds, ‘It’s mine.’

I blink at him. ‘Excuse me?’

‘When you say you keep seeing it, I’m guessing that’s because you’ve seen it in my dad’s shop,’ he says, laughing modestly. ‘I did ask him not to display it there, but he insists.’

‘You… you drew these?’

He nods, shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with this topic.

‘Leo,’ I say in frustration, leaping to my feet to walk around to the picture and study it properly, ‘they’re really good! Are you kidding me?’

He laughs at my expression. ‘How are you annoyed at me? I can tell you are.’

‘Because you haven’t mentioned that you’re a secret artist! Do you know how gorgeous an angle that is for the feature? Tell me about it!’

‘Ah, there’s not much to tell,’ he insists, looking down at his hands as he clasps them together.

‘It’s not serious. It helps me think. Sketching is a bit like surfing in that it takes me away from everything else.

’ He hesitates, adding with a wry smile, ‘It’s a bit more relaxing than surfing, though.

I guess it’s good to have a hobby that helps me unwind. ’

‘How long have you done it for? You’re so talented!’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m not disciplined at all in it; I only do it when I have the time.

I used to be quite good at art at school – probably the only thing I was good at when it came to school.

But then I sort of… lost it for a bit.’ He clears his throat.

‘I took it up again when I moved back here. My dad bought me the stuff I needed, actually; he got me all the charcoal and graphite supplies, encouraged me to give it a go again.’

I point at the sailboat in the picture. ‘Why is this one special?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘This one must be special to you, it’s the only one on your wall,’ I note.

‘The ones in your dad’s shop and at Marina’s are surfers, but this one is a boat.

You don’t have any other ones up here in your home but I assume you have done more drawings than this, so what is it about this one that you like? ’

He looks at me, puzzled, his lips slightly parted in confusion, as though he’s never thought about it. Eventually, he closes his mouth and swallows, before saying, ‘It was the first one I ever sketched here on the balcony, so it felt like a moment,’ without taking his eyes off mine.

I nod, folding my arms as I turn back to admire it. ‘Charcoal creates such a cool effect. Whimsical almost. Kind of haunting.’

‘I saw the boat out there and I wondered where they were going,’ he explains, standing up to come join me in examining it. ‘Then I realised that they probably didn’t care where they were going. They were just… sailing.’

Side by side, we fall into silence. I’m so aware of how close he’s standing to me, how if I stretched out my fingertips, they might brush against his and maybe that would lead him to wrap his hand around mine like earlier today and drag me towards him and—

The doorbell rings and I jump.

‘That will be Dad,’ he says in a low voice, stepping behind me to go to the door.

Exhaling, I shut my eyes while my mind races with thoughts that I shouldn’t be having.

It’s a good thing I have this date tomorrow so I can quash this silly crush with the excitement of dating someone like José, who is quite potentially the Perfect Man.

I’m heading home soon, too, so anything that happens with José would be temporary and uncomplicated – just how I like it.

I cannot develop feelings for Leo. That would be extremely complicated.

What matters here is my career.

And that’s something I have to remind myself continually throughout the evening whenever I catch Leo’s gaze lingering on me a little too long as I burst out laughing at one of Adriano’s stories, or when I find myself admiring Leo’s artwork too many times to be subtle, or when I say goodnight and he tells his dad he’s going to walk me home, happy to stroll slowly next to me while I totter along in my wedges, putting out his hand to help me balance down the steeper slopes.

‘Thanks again for this evening, Leo, it was really… helpful,’ I say stupidly, as we get to my apartment building. ‘I like your dad’s attitude towards your training in the lead up to the competition. He’s so calm and casual about it. It’s refreshing.’

He shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘He makes it seem easy, right?’

‘I think that’s a good thing. He doesn’t want to put too much pressure on you.’

‘It doesn’t matter; the pressure is there. I don’t want him to lose his business.’ He looks disheartened for a moment. ‘If I win, it could do everyone a lot of good.’

‘And what about you? What does it mean to you to ring that iconic bell again?’

He brings his eyes up to meet mine. ‘It would do me a lot of good, too, knowing I still have what it takes to compete with the young stars out there.’

I fold my arms across my chest. ‘You doubt yourself?’

‘Doesn’t every athlete have their doubts?’

I smile slowly at him. ‘That’s why they have their support network to help them overcome those doubts. But not you. You’re a lone wolf.’

He grimaces. ‘I think I may have to adjust that quote.’

I laugh, rummaging in my bag for my keys. ‘I’ll see you in the morning bright and early. Your dad has invited me to come watch you surf down the coast first thing.’

‘Has he?’

‘Is that okay? I should have really been shadowing several of your training sessions by now, so please don’t say no.’

‘Sure, no dramas,’ he assures me. ‘You do know that my training sessions are just me surfing, right? There’s nothing special about it.’

‘I’ll be the one to judge what’s special.’

He gives me a wry smile. ‘You can tell me afterwards whether my doubts are justified or if you think I have what it takes.’

‘I don’t need tomorrow to make up my mind on that.’

It’s bold and it’s potentially a little inappropriate, but it’s also true. And the foolish part of me wants him to know that.

His brow creases and he looks unsure.

Then he leans towards me and my breath catches in my throat as for one crazy moment, I think he might be about to kiss me. But he goes to kiss me on the cheek, the warmth of his skin brushing against mine sending shivers down my spine.

I clear my throat.

‘Night, Leo,’ I say in a clipped tone as he pulls back, desperately trying to maintain an air of professionalism after letting my thoughts run riot. I hope my expression hasn’t given any of them away.

‘Night, London,’ he murmurs.

I could be looking for something that isn’t there, but I think I hear a note of regret in his voice.

He waits until I’m safely inside before he leaves.